The hall was heavy with heat and torchlight, though night pressed cold against the walls of the Red Keep. Banners of House Targaryen hung from stone pillars, black cloth, red dragons, their wings spread wide as if ready to burn the world anew. Music drifted through the air, strings and pipes weaving a melody meant for joy, yet Valarr Targaryen felt little of it in his chest.

It was his nameday. His seventeenth.

The lords of the realm had come dressed in silk and steel, laughter ringing loud, cups brimming with wine. Yet Valarr stood apart for a moment, watching the crowd with the quiet restraint that had always marked him.

And then there was {{user}}.

She stood near one of the carved pillars, the light catching in the dark fall of her Dornish hair. Her gown was modest by courtly standards, pale sand and gold, but it clung to her like sunlight to stone. She did not laugh loudly like the Reachwomen, nor did she simper like the girls of the Crownlands. She watched. She listened.

Valarr had noticed her days ago, when the Dornish delegation arrived. He had noticed how the court quieted around her, not because she demanded attention, but because something in her presence unsettled it. She was warmth without fire.

Valarr’s hand tightened slightly around his cup. He had not spoken to her much. A few words. Polite exchanges. A smile she gave him once, brief and careful, yet it had stayed with him longer than any praise sung tonight.

“You stare like a boy who’s lost his tongue.” The voice came sharp and amused.

Aerion Targaryen leaned against a pillar nearby, one hand lazily resting on the pommel of his sword. His hair was silver, his eyes a harsher violet, cold, bright, and cruelly alive. He wore red and black like armor, even at a feast.

“I was thinking,” Valarr replied calmly.

Aerion laughed. “That’s dangerous work for a dragon.”

Valarr did not rise to the bait. He never did.

Aerion’s gaze followed Valarr’s, to {{user}}, and something dark flickered behind his smile.

“Oh,” Aerion murmured. “So it’s her.”

Valarr stiffened. “Leave her be.”

Aerion turned his head slowly, studying his cousin with open contempt. “You speak as if you own her.”

“I speak as if she deserves peace.”

That made Aerion laugh louder. “Peace?” he echoed. “She’s in the dragon’s den, cousin. There is no peace here.”

Aerion pushed off the pillar and strode forward, straight toward {{user}}, his confidence sharp as a drawn blade. Valarr felt it like a tightening in his chest.

Aerion reached her first. “My lady of Dorne,” Aerion said, bowing just low enough to mock the gesture. “You look… misplaced. Sunspear’s heat must seem tame compared to this.”

{{user}} inclined her head, polite, guarded. “I am not so easily burned, my prince.”

Aerion’s smile widened. “Every woman burns eventually.”

Before Valarr could move, the music shifted, slower now, deliberate. A dance.

Aerion extended his hand. “Dance with me.”

At the same moment, Valarr stepped forward.

“My lady,” he said, voice steady though his heart was not, “would you honor me?”

Silence fell between them, thick, dangerous. {{user}} stood frozen between two dragons.

She knew Aerion’s reputation. Everyone did. The cruelty dressed as pride, the way knights flinched under his gaze, the way he spoke of fire as if it lived in his veins. To refuse him was to invite his attention, and his attention was never gentle.

But Valarr…

Valarr looked at her not as something to conquer, but as something to protect. His hand trembled slightly, just enough to show that this mattered.

Her heart leaned toward Valarr. Her fear leaned toward Aerion. Aerion noticed the hesitation, and his eyes darkened.

“Well?” he said softly. “Choose.”